


Run your fingers through my soul

by queerly_it_is



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Lucifer as Sam | Sam as Lucifer, M/M, Pining, Prayer, Season 5 Spoilers, Season 6 Spoilers, Soulfisting, Souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerly_it_is/pseuds/queerly_it_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam needs to know he has a soul. He needs to be sure Lucifer is gone. Sam needs Cas.</p>
<p>Things kinda go a little further than he thought they would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run your fingers through my soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [checkthemargins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkthemargins/gifts).



> Written for a prompt by Checkthemargins

Cas is _not_ happy.

If Sam hadn’t spent what is probably an unhealthy amount of time staring at the guy; cataloguing every minute twitch of facial muscle and shift in posture that gives away his emotions, he probably wouldn’t have noticed.

But he has, and he does.

Cas is _really_ not happy.

“I just. I need to be sure Cas, OK? _Please_.” He knows turning the pleading puppy-eyes on an Angel of the Lord is kinda low, but he really _does_ need Cas to do this. He’s spent days not sleeping, barely eating, determinedly ignoring the concerned looks Dean has been sending his way.

But Dean isn’t here. Cas is, and Sam _needs_ this.

“Sam.” So much frustration and maybe even concern packed into one small syllable. 

“This isn’t a good idea, Sam. You don’t need to put yourself through this. Lucifer is gone, your soul is in place, there is no reason for this.” Intense, pleading blue eyes boring into his, and as always Sam fights the urge to drop his gaze, painfully aware of every tainted cell in his body as he’s scrutinised by something so pure and Holy that he wants to scratch and claw at himself until he digs it all out.

Sam doesn’t doubt Cas‘ word, he just needs to know it for himself. He needs to _feel_ the burning light inside of him, something that tells him he isn’t an empty shell, a feeling-less monster who leaves his brother in the hands of other monsters. Who allows innocent people to die and doesn’t even think to question it.

He forces himself to stare Cas down where’s standing in the middle of the room; same spot he’s been standing in since Dean had left and Sam’d dropped to his knees on the ratty motel carpet and prayed desperately, brokenly, until the angel had materialised with a soft flap of invisible wings.

“I _need_ to be sure.” He says again, sitting on the bed with his hands clasped in his lap.

“You don’t understand how painful this will be for you, Sam. You don’t remember how it felt the last time. I. I have no wish to see you suffer.” His tone is gentler, but no less pleading.

The admission surprises Sam a little; that part of himself that is still so in awe of what Castiel _is_ amazed that the angel would care about his suffering, especially after everything he’s done.

“It’s my choice Cas, okay? I know it’s gonna hurt, I don’t blame you. I promise.”

Cas takes a deep breath through his nose, jaw clenching so tight Sam can see the muscle twitching.

“Lie back on the bed.” He says finally, seemingly resigned to Sam’s stubbornness.

He pushes himself up the narrow, slightly sagging mattress until he’s resting against the headboard.

He watches as Cas slips out of his trench coat, forever surprised by how much _smaller_ he looks without the added bulk of it billowing as he moves. He folds the coat carefully over the back of a chair in a way Sam can’t help but find endearing, takes off his suit jacket and folds that over the coat.

Sam can feel the slight flush in his cheeks as he takes Castiel in; black pants and patent leather shoes, white shirt open at the collar, tie hanging loose and casual. He notes the delicate line of his neck, faint stubble fading into smooth skin. He swallows, hard, when Cas undoes the cuffs of his shirt and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. He looks good like this, Sam decides; softer, the after-work appearance somehow gentling the efficient soldier-like way he moves, no motion wasted as he crosses to the side of the bed, kneels down to Sam’s right.

His eyes rove over Sam’s face, looking for something Sam can’t name as he tries not to notice the ruffles of his hair or the almost-fragile bones of his wrists. Seemingly satisfied by whatever he sees, Cas’ hands move to the buttons of Sam’s flannel overshirt.

“It will be somewhat easier on you, if there are fewer barriers in the way.” Softest tone Sam’s ever heard from him, words warm and quiet in the small space between them.

Sam allows Cas to unbutton and remove the flannel shirt, trying desperately not to let his mind wander to the way the lithe muscles play beneath the white cotton of Cas’ dress shirt, or how the sinews in his forearms stretch and flex with the sure movements of his fingers. The thin grey t-shirt gets tugged over his head, and Sam tries to ignore how he’s half naked with a warrior of God kneeling by his bed.

Finally propped against the headboard, goosebumps rising in the poorly-insulated room; Sam’s eyes lock to Cas’ right hand as he lifts it and places it on his chest. He rests it there for a moment, and Sam becomes aware of the pounding of his heart beneath Cas’ fingers, the pale skin of his hands stark on the tan of Sam‘s chest. Cas’ left hand comes up and softly brushes his cheek, words flowing gently under his breath that sound vaguely like Latin.

Sam tries to suppress the stinging behind his eyes at thought of an angel praying over him.

“You should take a deep breath, and then let it out slowly as I move.” Sam utterly fails at not blushing at that, red tinting halfway down his chest, mind skittering back to a dark dorm-room in California, first time he’d let a guy fuck him. He manages a nod, and feels the pressure of Cas’ hand on his chest get stronger.

He almost doesn’t expect anything to happen, it not seeming possible that a human hand - regardless of the Grace that runs beneath it - can just slip through his skin, the muscles of his chest, the bones of his ribcage. When suddenly it just _does_ , abrupt heat and inescapable pressure as Cas’ hand _shoves_ up and forward into him. It’s not a physical sensation really; the pain radiating outwards from something intangible that he’s never really been aware of but knows intrinsically is _his_. He knows he’s screaming, can feel the sensation in his throat even if he can’t hear the noise over the _rushing_ and _roaring_ sound of Cas touching his _soul_.

He knows it’s there, now. First time in his life he’s ever felt this purely human; every sensation in his body narrowed to the core of his being, eyes clamped shut and hands fisting in the sheets as he tries to compartmentalise the pain, shove it down the way his dad’s training and years of practice have taught him. But this isn’t a flesh wound or a broken bound, it’s a kind of deep-seated invasive sensation that goes beyond the tissue and muscle and organs of his body.

Cas is literally touching _him_ , the _essence_ of him; the one essential component that maybe isn’t corrupted and polluted. It’s probably the only time in his life that that’s ever been the case, and Sam is undeniably glad that it’s _Cas_ who gets this bit of him, the only person apart from Dean he considers family.

The burning pain recedes after what feels like hours, leaving Sam gasping and sweating; hair clinging to his forehead and damp at his neck, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat and in the grooves between his muscles, sticking him to the sheets underneath him.

Cas looks more than a little wired himself, a kind of intense wild look around his eyes Sam’s never seen before, the light in them seeming brighter somehow. He looks every bit the creature of Heaven Sam knows he is; beautiful, timeless, otherworldly.

Cas’ slightly shaky hand brushes the hair from his face, tucks it gently behind his ears, pads of his fingers smoothing the lines of residual pain from Sam’s forehead, lingering at his temples. He feels the gentle _rush_ as Cas heals whatever physical strain his body just went through. He doesn’t move his hand away afterwards though, just kinda stares at Sam like he’s never seen him before. In a way Sam supposes that’s true.

“You.” Cas’ voice is rough and a little cracked. He clears his throat, tries again. “You have a humbling amount of piety in you, Sam Winchester.”

Sam _really_ can’t think of a response to that. He’s never lost his faith, despite everything Heaven and Hell have put them through, he still prays - either because he wants God himself to hear or because he no longer knows what he‘d do if he stopped - though he’s stopped talking to Dean about it, knows his brother wouldn’t understand, his beef with all things angelic (with the possible exception of Cas) runs too deep, now.

Cas places a gentle kiss on his forehead, lips dry and a little chapped as more soft Latin is whispered against his skin. _“Benedicto Dei omnipotentis,_ _ Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti descendat super vos et maneat semper.” _

Sam’s eyes fall closed as the blessing washes over him, almost like a physical touch. He shivers and Cas’ places another kiss against his temple, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

Sam turns his head into it with a soft whimper, and Cas’ lips press sure and steady against his own, tongue sweeping along his lower lip, demanding entry, the feel of it every bit as focused and unwavering as the angel leaning over him.

The kisses get more and more bold, taste of ozone and something warm and soothing along Cas’ tongue making him groan, try to draw it into his mouth. Cas has a hand running along the side of his jaw, another resting on his stomach, moving up and down with the heaving of his breath.

“Cas.” Breathy sigh from his lips, doesn’t really know what he’s asking for here, what he’s allowed to have.

“Shh, Sam. Don’t talk, just let me.” Hand running down under the waistband of his jeans, teeth nipping at Sam’s lips as he pulls back, eyes focused and intent on Sam’s belt as pulls it out and drops it to the ground with a _clink_ of the buckle. The button and zipper are next, and then Cas has a warm, firm grip around the hard length of his dick.

“Fuck, Cas, _please_.” There’s something so hard-hitting about this; he’s got a dishevelled, gorgeous angel of God touching his cock, eyes locked on where Sam is wet and leaking at the tip as he slides through Cas’ fist. Cas strokes him harder, faster, the twist of his wrist as he gets to the head making Sam wonder if he went through his memories, looking for whatever’ll make him lose it the fastest. The thought of Cas seeing everything he’s done in bed with guys, girls, trips some kind of exhibitionist streak he’s not exactly proud of, but he can’t deny the way it makes him harder in Cas’ grip, the way he feels the _need_ flash through him.

“Let it go, Sam. I’m here. I’ll catch you.” Words rough and commanding in his ear, twist of wrist and flick of his thumb under the head, and Sam comes across Cas’ hand, his stomach, some shooting up to his chest.

When he comes down from the buzz and high of his orgasm, pleasure weighting his limbs where he was already exhausted from all the soul-touching earlier, Cas is sitting in a chair next to the bed, clothes back in place, and Sam notices the come is gone from his skin. He smiles tiredly at Cas, probably too soft and something-else he doesn’t wanna look at right now, gets a slight twitch of Cas’ mouth that somehow means more than a grin.

“I should go. Dean will be back soon, and I doubt he would understand this.” Whether he means Sam’s existential crisis or the handjob he isn’t sure, suspects it’s true either way.

“Yeah, okay. Listen, thanks. For, well everything.” Lame attempt at gratitude, but Cas’ lips quirk again.

Cas stands and moves to the head of the bed, puts a hand to the top of Sam’s head, fingers sinking through his hair a little.

“Keep your faith close, Sam. You will find your way.”

With that, and another muffled _flap_ of feathers, he’s gone, and Sam is left smiling in an empty room, eyes drifting closed.


End file.
